Guardian
by abrynne
Summary: Eighth Installment - Work goes on for the men of Team Machine regardless of the life that surrounds them. Is it all worth it though? Being these nameless guardian angels? Sam has to figure that out for herself when she and John have to pretend to be a little closer than friends in order to save the next number.
1. Direction

This is the eighth installment of my PoI series. If you're just now checking it out, I highly recommend starting with "Dark Horse" and moving on from there. It's getting to the point where you have to know at least some of the history to understand everything. I know... this has gotten way out of hand. :P

This particular story is still in the works, plot wise. So, it'll probably be a little slower going than my usual fare.

Thanks for reading and enjoy!

* * *

_I still felt the impressions of the handcuffs on my wrists. I rubbed them absently as he approached me and placed two long fingers under my chin. The pressure of them lifted my head. I was forced to look up at him._

_ His bright blue eyes narrowed with concern as he examined my face. At the moment, I only felt an abnormal warmth where I was hit on my cheek bone and just above my eye. His other hand delicately touched one of the bruises, and that's when the pain came. I winced and tried pulling away from him, but he held me in place._

_ "Sorry," he said._

_ "It's okay," I replied, grateful that I was out of that mess. "I didn't think you'd come back for me."_

_ "Shan," he said disdainfully. "You know better than that."_

_ He actually risked a small smile. Jack's smiles were so rare that I tried to take a mental photograph of each one. This one was a little one, but hit reached his eyes for a moment as he took a closer look at my injury._

_ "Do I?"_

_ "I told you before that if you ever needed me I'd find you." Jack stepped away from me, breaking that small moment. "Sit down. I'll get you some ice."_

"Something amusing, Mr. Reese?"

John glanced up from what he was reading, unaware that he'd been smiling. Finch stepped into HQ, draping his suit jacket over the desk chair. John held up the printed pages in his hand. "Just catching up with a serial."

Finch lifted his eyebrows. John couldn't be sure if it was surprise on his face or if Finch was impressed.

"You have a story? I never took you as one for reading modern _fiction_, Mr. Reese."

"If it's good…" John shrugged.

"Is it good?" Finch sat down in the chair, inputting his password into the computer. He looked over and glanced at the pages John held.

"Ah, that's _Mad World_ isn't it? The adventures of Shannon Holden and Jack Priest. That last installment is a bit of a cliffhanger."

"Hey, spoilers, Finch," John said, lifting his hands up helplessly. "I never took you for reading modern fiction either. Or modern anything for that matter."

"If it's good..." Finch mimicked John's shrug. "I find it interesting that you of all people would become involved in an online published story about an ex government agent and a woman he happens to come across." Finch's tone was light, but John felt the weight of his words as though he'd been beating an anvil with each syllable. "I would have thought you'd easily bore of a storyline like that."

"This one has managed to keep my interest."

Finch lifted his eyebrows, looking like a large bird about to pounce on an insect. "I've done some research on the author."

"Angelina Chambers?"

"There isn't much to find."

"There wouldn't be, would there? It's a pen name."

Finch smiled. "A very romantic one at that."

John shared a look with Finch. They both knew who they weren't talking about. It hung in the air like a great balloon about to burst.

It had taken a little while to track Angelina Chambers down. For Finch, it probably didn't take quite as long. John had gone through countless articles and stories before finding the right magazine with the right style of storytelling. Somehow, he knew that she was still writing something, somewhere. After reading the first paragraph of the first chapter of the online magazine serial, John knew who Angelina Chambers really was.

John read the new chapters that were posted on website every week. Some of the stories were close to the actual truth, others were more fabricated. But in every single one, Sam's sense of humor was constant, refreshing. Perhaps that's why he kept reading them. She had been gone for over two months after all. Reading her writing was like having a bit of her around at times.

Shannon, the main character in the serial, spoke and acted just like Sam. And it was interesting, to say the least, to see how she portrayed him, John, in the character of Jack Priest: the tall, intimidating ex CIA agent with trust issues and a dangerous left hook.

John stared at the printed pages in his hands, but no longer saw the words. Sam knew about the machine and, therefore, he knew that ever since she left, Finch was tracking her, keeping tabs on her whereabouts. If John asked him, he probably could pull up her exact location right there on one of the computer monitors. But he never asked.

"You'll have to bookmark it for now," Finch said, derailing John's thoughts. "We have a new number."

* * *

The following morning Samantha Watts, once known as Samantha Tudin in another life, stared at the white ceiling above her bed. The room was dark and quiet. It was early morning, the sun just barely above the horizon.

Since returning to New York, Sam hadn't slept a lot. She'd get two hours in here, and hour in there, like a cat. But most of the time she'd lie awake, her dark hair spread out on the pillow, her eyes staring at nothing as she lost herself in her thoughts.

This morning didn't appear to be any different until someone tapped lightly at the door. Sam didn't answer. She knew who it was.

Alina opened the door a crack and came in, shutting the door behind her.

"Good morning," she said. Her hair was in large rollers, and she wore a hot pink bathrobe

"Hey Alina," Sam said without looking at her.

"I wanted to see how you were doing." Alina smiled, a lovely white smile against the backdrop of her dark, satiny skin.

"I'm good," Sam answered without thinking about it.

Alina sat down on the bed, facing Sam. She reached up and started taking the rollers out of her hair one by one. Sam watched; each section of ebony hair bounced back up in a thick curl once it was released.

"I was thinking about what you said when I first brought you here."

"Oh," Sam said.

"Do you even remember how long ago that was?" Alina asked.

Sam thought for a second. "A week, maybe?"

"Two weeks, Sam. You've kept yourself holed up in here like a hermit. I haven't seen you go out once since you've been back. It's not that I don't like having you here. I do. It's nice to come home and see a friendly face. But this," she waved her finger vaguely in the air at Sam, "is not the same woman who helped save my life a little while back." Alina wasn't accusing Sam of anything. She spoke out of concern, and Sam couldn't take offense at that.

"I don't know what to do with myself anymore. Every single morning I have to talk myself out of going out there to look."

"For John?"

"It's not just him," Sam said. "I was helping people, _really_ helping people. Now that I'm back, and I can't do that anymore, I don't know what to do."

Alina eyed Sam for a moment. "Who says you can't? You are the same woman who dragged that man out of a building that just exploded. I think you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. What was all that traveling for anyway? I thought you had your head on straight when you got back."

Sam bristled a little at Alina's scolding. That wasn't exactly the sympathetic reaction she'd been hoping for. "I thought I did too. But that never happens."

Alina finished with the curlers and poked at Sam to scoot over. She got under the covers and lay down next to her.

"I wanted to rush back into everything the moment I set foot here," Sam continued. "It was almost like I was never away."

"Why are you forcing yourself to do something you don't want to do?" Alina turned on her side and propped her head up on her hand. Her hair cascaded over her shoulder and her arm like a silky waterfall. "Sam, making yourself do something because you think it's right isn't always the right thing if it makes you miserable."

Sam sighed as she reached over the edge of the bed. She found her purse and pulled a few strips of paper out of it.

"What is that?"

Sam handed the photo booth pictures of herself and John over to Alina, who looked at each one in turn. She laughed lightly. "These are pretty cute. Were you guys arguing?"

"Some of the time. That's really all I have left from that whole time, working with him, helping people…" Sam watched as Alina finished with the fourth strip. "Wait. There are supposed to be five."

She pulled her purse onto the bed and rummaged through it. "Great! I lost one. I haven't pulled those out since I left, so I don't know where the last one went. It's probably in the UK somewhere."

"Sam, why don't you just go and find him?" Alina asked.

"I don't think it would matter to him if I did or not."

"That's the risk you take, honey. And it's better than lying in my guest room in the dark, kicking yourself. You need to go back to your life, Sam. Or make a new one. The choice is yours, but you have to figure it out before you drive yourself crazy."

"I liked my old life. Well, it was actually my new life – I liked that one. I don't want to start over again."

"Then start where you left off. Do what makes you happy. It took me a long time to start living by that, Sam. Does helping people, working with John, all of that make you happy?"

Sam had the same argument with herself the entire time she was gone. Even when she was wandering around out of the country, she thought of little else. There were a few times when she believed she had figured it out, and made a decision, one way or the other. The next day, however, it would all go back to square one and the argument would start over again. The bottom line, unfortunately, was that she wanted to know what she needed, and she didn't know where to start in figuring that out.

But what made her happy? What really made her happy? When John looked at her and she knew she was making him laugh, but he was hiding it in that solid way that only he was capable of; when she and John finished a job, and they walked away together, talking softly, and looking forward to sleep; reading a good book that Harold recommended – Wait, no! She had left all of that behind for good reason. What was the reason again?

"John doesn't believe he deserves to be happy," Sam laughed bitterly. "How batshit crazy is that? He thinks everyone else in the entire world deserves happiness, but him!"

"What do you think?" Alina asked.

"I think he's crazy." Sam forced herself out of the bed, placing her feet firmly on the floor. "He's crazy for doing what he does; he's crazy because he's in love with a dead woman; he's crazy because - "

"Back the truck up. Dead woman?"

"He acts like he's the king of all baggage," Sam said as she changed into jeans and a cotton top. "Like he has the monopoly on being messed up," Sam pointed specifically at her head and rotated her finger around. "That's almost egotistical, conceited… in a backwards kind of way, isn't it?"

"Could be," Alina agreed.

"The thing is though," Sam said in a calmer voice. "That is why he understands… everything, basically. He's been through hell, but he's still – " Sam sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "He's the best man I've ever known. And you know," her voice grew louder again, "I use the word "man" very specifically, because not all of them fulfill that definition, if you know what I mean."

"I hear that."

"John, I think, is the first adult male I've met who basically fulfills the definition of a man."

Alina studied her for a long minute. "You miss him."

"I miss him," Sam confirmed. "I miss talking to him. I miss Harold's word use, I miss getting thanked by strangers I've just helped. I thought that I could somehow shut John and all of that out of my life, and keep going. But it doesn't work that way, does it?"

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. Alina sat up behind her and began gently combing her fingers through her hair.

"I guess I thought that if I went far enough; if I gave myself enough space that it would all go away. But it's like it was all waiting for me, and as soon as I got back… Maybe if I just leave for good and go somewhere…"

"If you run away; if you get a half a dozen haircuts; if you get a tattoo – if, if, if," Alina said, putting her arm across the front of Sam's shoulders. "If you come back; if you see him again; if you found out that he missed you – "

"He doesn't miss anybody," Sam said firmly.

"What would you do if he did? If he took notice of the fact that you were gone, what would you say?"

Sam laughed bitterly and shook her head as she got up. "I have no idea, because he would _never_ admit to such a thing. And stop talking about him. It's not just him!"

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Alina. The bottom line is that I don't think going back where I left off would be very healthy for me." Sam pointed her finger at Alina, a triumphant look on her face. "And I _didn't_ get a tattoo."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to go for a walk." And if I find John in the process, maybe I can shout at him for a little bit. And maybe that will make me feel better. "I just want to feel better." Sam opened the door, but turned to look at Alina once more. "I'm crazy too, though. That's part of the problem."

"The more immediate problem is the fact that you haven't showered in three days!" Alina yelled after her.


	2. Demons

Sam pushed her still damp hair back over her shoulder as she walked in the early morning light. She wandered as she thought. She wandered, allowing her feet to go where they wanted.

It was still early yet; a little before people began leaving their homes to start the day, so the streets were close to empty. There were the usual joggers and cyclists, and other wanderers like Sam. All of them kept to themselves as they passed her by. Sam had spent about a week of her time away in Italy. She could never take a walk there without someone stopping her. People were friendly, open over there. But, Sam found that she missed some of the privacy her own country gave her as it did when she was walking that morning.

She had missed the city. She missed the sounds and the constant feel of busyness around her while she herself stayed calm and alone in her own thoughts – almost as if she was the still, quiet center of a swirling, chaotic galaxy.

What would be the worst thing that would happen if she went back to the way things were? The main motivation for her leaving in the first place was mostly the fact that she had nearly become just like the monsters who murdered her parents. She'd had the gun in her hand, and was looking down at them over the top of the weapon. She pulled the trigger once and missed. That was nearly three months ago, and Sam still couldn't be sure if she'd missed on purpose or not.

What had stopped her from pulling that trigger again and hitting her mark? John. His voice, his words. She remembered them clearly. He'd said that she was more than a friend to him, something he believed didn't exist for him anymore. If she had pulled the trigger, would she have remained the same in his eyes?

She'd left John, she'd left that life. What had she been hoping for in leaving? To forget? Sam shook her head. She couldn't remember what she'd wanted when she left. Now, she knew that she just wanted some peace, or some happiness, or just _something_ to stop the constantly circulating thoughts running around in her head.

Sam found herself walking through a section of the park. She knew where she was going even though she hadn't originally chosen the path. She turned a corner, and just as expected a large apartment building loomed to her left; to her right, a section of the park with stone benches and gaming tables. Sam sat down next to one of the tables, the game pieces set on the board. She looked up at the building to the second floor, where John's apartment was.

Never in her life had she felt more like a stalker, sitting there, outside someone's home, partially hoping to catch a glimpse of them. But somehow, she already knew that he wasn't there.

Sam rested her elbow on the table and knocked one of the game pieces onto the grass.

"Oops," she said to herself and picked it up.

"If you sit down, you play."

Sam looked up, setting the piece back on the board. An old, Asian man sat down across from her. He heaved a sigh, and set his cane down next to his seat. His hair was gray and wispy, and his eyes were dark, but had a milky sheen over them, making them look just barely out of focus.

"I'm sorry, I don't know how to play. I'll open up the seat for someone else," Sam moved to get up.

"Do not leave so quickly," he said, smiling. "Even if we do not play, it is rare that I am in the company of a lovely woman." He smiled and slightly bowed his head respectfully.

His eyes never focused on her, they just seemed to look, as if he was watching something no one else could see. Sam laughed a little at the compliment. "I beg your pardon, but how do you know if I'm lovely or not?"

"Beauty is not only in the appearance of things," he said wisely. "The sound of a person's voice gives away more about the person than their words."

"What does mine give away?" Sam asked, curious.

"You speak with the weight of many things, and yet your tone remains light, attractive, like you are smiling even when you're not. The words you use are kind, intelligent. All together it makes the woman a lovely woman."

"Thank you," Sam said.

"Lovely woman has a name, I think." It wasn't a question.

"Samantha – well, Sam."

"Samantha." He pronounced the t separately, giving it a crisp sound. "I am Han."

"Nice to meet you, Han."

"Your smile is still there, Samantha. I can hear it."

"Because you made me smile."

"A lovely woman should always be smiling."

"To please others?" Sam asked.

"Perhaps," Han nodded. "It pleases me to hear your smile."

"Sometimes it's hard to smile," Sam looked away from him, absently fiddling with one of the game pieces as she looked back to John's apartment.

"Tell me."

"It's a long story, Han."

"Look at me," he laughed. "Do I have anywhere to go right now?"

Sam sighed and looked at Han. His eyes rested somewhere near her elbow as he waited for her. Strangely, his presence, and the fact that he couldn't see her was comforting.

"I just got back into town. I needed a break, I guess. I left everything, my friends, my life. But all it got me was jet lag and a bunch of pictures of stuff."

"You traveled, Samantha. Most people take pictures when they travel."

"Yeah, but I was alone," Sam leaned forward on the table. "So my pictures are all just of stuff. It seems like such a waste of time when you could go on the internet and find pictures of the exact same stuff, and say that you took them."

Han laughed at her sarcasm. "But you are back now."

"Yes. I'm back," Sam sighed. "I came over here maybe… hoping that I'd run into a friend of mine. I haven't seen him for a while."

"He knows you're back?"

Sam thought on it for a moment. Finch knew for damn sure. "I don't know, actually. He might. But I left him and I left my job because of some new… demons I gained. There were some things I learned about myself that I didn't like. I guess I was trying to outrun everything."

"Demons have to be faced, Samantha, or they will always chase you," Han said. "Are you afraid your friend will see those demons in you now?"

"No," Sam said slowly as she thought. "He... he would help me fight them." Even as she said it she knew it was true. "He knows what it's like, to have demons. In fact," Sam felt as though she discovered the code to a vault as the realization came to her, "I think he believes that he is a demon."

Han nodded and appeared to look down at the game board for a moment, lost in a complicated thought. He lifted his head and nearly met Sam's eyes. "A man who believes that of himself usually has a reason for doing so."

Sam nodded as well, though she knew Han couldn't see it. John had a past, most of which she knew nothing about, some of which she could imagine though, if she tried. "That's why," she breathed.

"Why what?"

"John, my friend, thinks he is past redemption, that he's not worth saving or waiting for because of the things he's done," Sam's words spilled over each other as the thought came together in her head, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle falling perfectly into place. "It's almost as if he somehow thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he helps enough people for the rest of his life, it will make up for at least a little bit of what he's already done. Because that's all he's really wanted – to help." The vault opened just a crack.

"You are smiling again, Samantha," Han said with a smile of his own.

"He is the best man I've ever known," Sam admitted. "And he thinks he's the worst."

"The truth about yourself is the usually the most difficult to see," Han said. "Yet you can see it."

"I can - I do see it," Sam admitted eagerly.

"But you left," Han reminded her.

"I did. I left," Sam deflated a little. "I thought it was the best thing, that it would help. But I just figured out something within the last five minutes that I couldn't grasp in the three months I spent _trying_ to figure things out!"

Han chuckled. "Perhaps you should run into your friend John sooner rather than later. Hm?"

"I don't know how he'll react, or if he'll react. I'm just... scared," Sam admitted.

"Think Samantha that he has been scared all this time."

Sam laughed a little and rolled her eyes. "Why should he be scared?"

"That you may never return."

Sam stared at Han who seemed to stare back with that permanent, slightly amused smile on his kind face. They blinked at each other for a long moment – well, Sam blinked at Han. She couldn't be sure where Han was looking exactly - her phone rang from her pocket.

Sam jolted back to herself and pulled out her phone. The ID listed the caller as an Unknown Number.

Han seemed to sense her hesitation. "Is that John calling now?"

"I don't know."

"Answer. Do not be afraid, Samantha."

"Thank you, Han," Sam said as she stood and answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"I'm afraid we don't have time for the usual pleasantries, Miss Watts," Finch said hurriedly.

Sam's brain seemed to jam its gears when she heard his voice.

"Harold."

"We need your help. John's gotten himself… a little in over his head."


	3. Rescue

_Jack's line had gone dead. _

_ It was as though my tether, my safety line had been cut and I was floating out in the middle of the ocean alone. Scared seemed like an understatement. I checked for his location on my phone. It was gone. _

_ Jack was in trouble. _

_ I locked in a fresh magazine and tried to breathe steadily. Panic was always there, just below the surface, ready to boil over. I couldn't let it. Right now, he needed me. Right now, I had to be the safety line for him. I needed to tread water._

* * *

Sam dropped the phone from her ear and moaned. "What about Carter and Fusco?" she asked, replacing the phone on her ear as she walked along the perimeter of the park.

"They are giving us a chance to get John out first before they arrive with a squad of officers. But I can't get to him alone."

Us. Just like old times, which was what she was afraid of. Sam's hesitation wouldn't leave her. "I'm - I don't know, Harold. John's always in over his head."

"Believe me, I do understand how you feel, Sam," Finch said. "But, I trust that you will also understand me when I say that I have not heard from him in over ten hours. Something is very wrong. I wouldn't have contacted you unless it was absolutely necessary. And I can say that – "

"It is absolutely necessary," Sam finished his sentence and sighed. John was in danger. That wasn't news. But Finch sounded panicky, and Sam had that familiar lump in the pit of her stomach that she hadn't felt since the last time John's life had been hanging in the balance. If anything happened to him… "All right, I can – "

A black car sped up to the side of the road, making Sam jump onto the grass. Finch rolled down the window. "Get in, I'll explain on the way." He was being assertive and demanding. Something definitely was wrong.

Sam ran around to the passenger side of the car and barely sat down before Finch sped away.

"Hi Harold," she said. Her smile was unstoppable. It was nice to see Harold's familiar pop eyes behind the rectangular glasses again. The whole effect was reassuring somehow.

"There's a Welcome Home present for you in the glove compartment," Finch pointed.

Sam opened the glove box and out slid a black, nine millimeter: Sam's gun. "You sentimental fool." She ejected the magazine and saw that it was only half full. "John keep any extra mags in here?" she asked as she locked it back into the gun.

Finch reached into his jacket pocket as he drove haphazardly through the streets and pulled out a new magazine.

"Harold, I missed you," Sam said with a laugh in spite of how desperate he was acting.

"And I you," Finch nodded without looking at her.

"So where is he?"

"I can't be exactly sure. We are heading to his last location, which was transmitted over six hours ago. We'll start there."

"Harold, why are you so worried? John handles himself pretty well," Sam said, leaning back in her seat and buckling her seatbelt.

Finch glanced at her, then back at the windshield. "We were working on another number. Only now, it is very possible that instead of preventing a murder, we may have only switched the target to Mr. Reese."

"But you've lost contact with him before," Sam reasoned, trying to keep her panic under a tight lid. Finch was not helping.

"Yes, but he was not surrounded by a dozen heavily armed drug runners in any of those previous situations. Mr. Reese somehow diverted one of their shipments in order to help our latest number to escape. It worked perfectly… until they captured him."

"And you think he's still alive?"

"He knows the location of that shipment. They are most likely interrogating him."

"For more than ten hours," Sam said helplessly. "Why can't Carter or Fusco come now to help?"

Finch jumped a curb as he made a sharp right turn. They bounced in the car as he sped on.

"The detectives have to keep up appearances, Sam," Finch explained while running a red light. "These men are the leaders of some of the most dangerous smuggling gags in the city, perhaps the country. They come from all over, Germany, Turkey, Russia, France even. Let's just say that they are difficult to catch. The police received an anonymous tip this morning about the last location Mr. Reese was known to be. They are planning to converge upon that in less than an hour. Mr. Reese will be arrested with the rest of those men if we don't get to him in time. Detective Carter gave us a window, that is all she was able to manage."

"How do we even know that John and all of them are still in that place?"

"We don't." Finch said. "I'm only hoping."

* * *

Finch slowed and stopped quietly in front of a row of houses. They looked old and run down on the outside.

"We need to go in, find out if he's there. If he is, I send a message to Detective Carter, and we get him out."

"With a dozen drug lords running after us screaming in foreign tongues," Sam said as she stowed her weapon and got out of the car. "I love this plan."

Everything was too familiar. This was the part of that life that Sam hated the most, the fear and dread at what lie on the other side of a door, or a wall; and worse, at what state John would be in when she found him. And she would find him. She always did. That was never a question.

Sam walked up to the front door of the first house along the street. It was a two storey and, judging from the junk pile dumped on the curb, was in the middle of being renovated. Finch pulled out his phone and looked at the screen for a moment.

"No," he gestured to the left. "It's this one."

They stepped off of the porch and approached the next front door. It looked like a duplex, the two houses joined together on one side.

The front door was shabby. Paint peeled from the wood, flaking off to the ground. The porch was dusted with paint chips. Sam tried the doorknob. The door was open. It gave way a little, and then stuck again. The swollen wood of the door, combined with the sagging of the framework made for a difficult entry. She pushed and shoved at the door until it left her and Finch enough space to slip inside.

The room itself seemed to be wrapped in a blanket of silence. Once Sam stepped in, she drew her weapon, and the absence of sound pressed against her ears. She swallowed, trying to make them pop, but there was no need for it. It was the room, the house itself.

She was right. It looked like the entire place was being renovated. Plastic covers were draped over furniture, and taped over windows. White sheets and tarps covered the floor.

Her dread doubled once she looked around the room. How many times had she done this with John, followed him into an unknown building. But this time, she wasn't reassured when she looked up and saw him in front of her, leading the way. Sam looked up and saw the ghost-like room in front of her, not John's back. Finch was close by, but now it was all on her.

Sam stopped in the entryway and listened. Air was coming in from the outside into the room somewhere, she could hear it. Some of the plastic and sheets moved gently with it.

"I don't think anyone is here," she whispered.

Finch nodded ahead of them. "You check in that other room. I'll look down here. We have to be sure." He was whispering as well, which made Sam feel a tiny bit better. He also sensed the strangeness about the place.

Sam moved to her right, around the perimeter of the front room. Careful not to step on any of the plastic covers, she headed towards an open doorway as Finch went down the opposite hall.

She stepped into what looked like a dining room that also shared the same space with a small kitchen. A dividing counter in the kitchen split the room. The dining table and chairs were also covered in protective plastic and sheets. Sam then saw where the outside draft was coming from. A window was open in the kitchen above the sink.

Sam tiptoed into the kitchen, her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. She stepped carefully past the sink to a closed door, most likely a cupboard or a broom closet.

A muffled noise stopped her reaching for the door. It sounded like a voice, but she had to be sure. Sam waited, holding her breath Her ears began to ring she was focusing them so hard. The voice came again. It was faint, but Sam was sure she heard it.

She reached forward and opened the door as quietly as possible. It wasn't a cupboard or a closet. The door opened to a set of stairs moving downwards. Another closed door sat at the bottom landing. The voice spoke again, it was clearer now. They were downstairs.

Sam shut the door and moved as quickly and quietly as she could back into the main room.

"_Harold!_" she hissed.

Finch came back down the hallway. She waved him over to her and led him into the kitchen, where she opened the door and they listened.

"_Ich möchte, dass dies für Sie einfacher. Dies schmerzt mich mehr, als Sie. Sag mir einfach, wo es ist."_

"Is that… German?" Sam whispered. She didn't know what they were saying, but she was pretty sure it wasn't 'Do you want fries with that?'

"It sounds like it."

The voice stopped, and their ears were assaulted with a loud metallic _pang!_ Sam covered her own mouth to keep from making any accidental noises out of surprise.

Finch closed the door and led the way back outside to the car. Sam followed him to the trunk of the car. He opened it and took out a large pair of bolt cutters.

"What are you going to do with those?"

"I'm going to cut the power to the building. They're down in the cellar, using artificial light. I'll distract them while you get John out."

"We don't even know if he's down there!"

"My German is rather rusty, but I believe that man was demanding to know the location of something."

"The shipment," Sam said, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her face. John was there. "They've had him down there this whole time?"

"I doubt he'll last much longer."

Sam looked in the trunk and went over the arsenal John had stored in there. There were two shot guns, an automatic rifle, several tear gas grenades, a gas mask, and extra magazines.

Sam picked up two tear gas grenades. "Finch, is there a way I could get into that cellar from the back?"

Finch pulled out his phone and tapped it a couple of times. "In anticipation of a plan to infiltrate the place, I downloaded the building schematics. There is a back entrance to the cellar."

Sam stared at him. "Harold, sometimes you're too smart for your own good, you know."

She loaded a new magazine into her gun, grabbed the gasmask, and stuffed the two grenades into her pockets. She nodded once at Finch and headed around the house to the back where, sure enough, there was a dug out set of cement stairs that led below ground.

The heat of the sunlight was already beginning to annoy her as Sam stooped and crawled along the side of the house. There were tiny windows set just at ground level. They wouldn't be in complete darkness when Finch cut the power.

Sam lowered herself onto her belly on the grass, and peered into the one of the windows.

There were at least ten men in there spread across the room. A few of them walked around the focal point of the room, a man tied securely to a chair. One of them held a fire poker in his hands; another had a large knife. The end of the fire poker was smeared with something. That explained the _pang_ they'd heard earlier. Sam's anger awoke inside of her.

She took a breath, her eyes on one of the light bulbs in the low ceiling. She waited, her gun in her hand, cocked and ready, and the gasmask perched on top of her head.

The lights went out. The men surrounding John looked up and around as Sam pulled the pin in the first grenade and chucked it through the window, breaking the glass. The room instantly began to fill up with the noxious fumes as she threw the second grenade into the room.

She leaped up and ran down the cellar steps, pulling the gasmask over her face. She tried the doorknob first. It was locked. One shot from her weapon unlocked the door and Sam wrenched it open. It fell shut again once she was inside. She wove in between the confused and choking men and got to the chair.

John was coughing on the gas as well, his eyes half closed. He looked a horrible mess, but she would have to assess the damage later. She reached into his jacket pocket and found the knife he always kept with him. She pulled it out along with a piece of paper that she ignored and stuffed in the back pocket of her jeans.

The smoke was thickening and Sam felt a slight stinging at her eyes from it. The gasmask was a little loose on her and was letting some of the fumes in. She cut John's bonds, freeing his arms and legs.

Sam's breathed and coughed into the mask, fogging up the visor as she stood and pulled John up into a standing position. He was very weak and leaned heavily on her.

"Move it, John! I need you to walk, soldier!" she shouted.

John forced his feet forward as Sam half carried him to the cellar door where she met the drug lord with the fire poker in his hand. His eyes and face were lobster red, but he took a swing at Sam, who ducked and fired at him. She had aimed low, but had no idea where he'd been hit.

He went down with a heavy thud, the fire poker clanging to the floor.

Sam pushed the door open and hefted John out into the open morning air. She shut the door, wedging the fire poker into it. They'd be able to open it eventually, but that would at least slow them down.

John was close to a dead weight. Moving up the stairs with him was slow work, but she managed it.

"John," she breathed as they walked on the grass. "Can you hear me? John?"

"_L'expédition est à la maison de votre mere." _John mumbled.

"What? Are you speaking French?"

"_Je ne sais pas," _he continued.

Finch met them halfway around the house and took John on his other side. Together they moved him to the car just as the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.

"He's completely out of it, Finch," Sam said, pulling off the gas mask. "They gave him something."

"We'll deal with that in a minute. Let's get him in the car."

Sam tossed the gun and the gasmask into the back seat before gently lowering John inside and jumping in after him.

Finch started the car, and they were off just before the first squad car turned the corner.

Sam propped John up against the seat and looked closely at him. His face was covered in blood and bruises. Red stained his shirt just above his waist.

She swore loudly. "Finch, he's been shot. They gave him something and shot him."

"Part of the interrogation no doubt," Finch said as they gained speed. "They weakened him, then drugged him, making him as vulnerable as possible."

John teetered in his seat and fell to the side as he mumbled gibberish. He lay down in the seat, his head on Sam's leg.

"John," Sam cupped his face in her hands, looking down at him. "John, look at me. Can you hear me?"

"لا يزال هنا. لم تكن قد كسر الرقم القياسي الخاص بي.

"_Sechzehn stunden. Immer noch hier."_

"I believe that first one was Arabic," Finch said.

"He's shorting out," Sam said helplessly. "Almost like he's hallucinating."

"John!" she tried again. "English, remember?"

John's eyes rolled until Sam saw the whites, then back again and she saw the blue under his heavy lids. He opened them a little more. "Jess," his voice creaked.

"What?"

"Jessica."

"No, it's me, John. It's Sam, remember me?"

"Sam's gone." John's eyes rolled again.

"Harold, we need a hospital right now. I've never seen him this bad." Sam took John's hand and put it to her face. "No, it's me. I'm right here. You're going to be okay."

"_Elle est partie. Elle a quitté."_ John's eyelids fluttered and Sam saw the whites again.

"He's going to go into shock," Finch said from the front seat. "Keep him awake."

"I don't think he's in a lot of pain. He's not feeling it at least," Sam patted John's cheeks until she saw his eyes again. "Hey, don't you go out on me like this, you idiot," she said.

John's eyes opened. They were dilated enough that the blue was very thin. But for the first time since she got to him, they seemed to focus directly on her and understand what he saw.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Sam," he said simply.

"I'm here. I'm right here," Sam said unable to hold back her smile. She checked the wound on his side and tried to put some pressure on it to slow the bleeding. Her other hand ran absently through the hair on top of his head as she held him there.

"You got a hair cut," John said, reaching up to the long bangs that Sam had swept over her forehead, and the layers that were cut around her face. He brushed at them with his fingertips, gliding over Sam's forehead and cheek.

"I did, yeah."

"I like it," John said before he closed his eyes.

Sam patted John's cheeks and he opened his eyes again. "You have to stay awake, John. Stay right here with me. You promise?"

His eyes opened again, reluctantly. "If you promise," he replied.

* * *

I definitely believe that John speaks all of those languages, probably more. But, I don't. I used Google Translator. I apologize up front if any of that is inaccurate. :P


	4. Rock

That day was a long one. The good news was that most of the drug runners in that cellar were incapacitated for long enough that they were arrested when the police arrived. The bad news was that John needed to be under observation for several hours before Finch and Sam could smuggle him back to his apartment. The drug in his system was a lethal cocktail that would have killed him if Finch and Sam had been any later than they were.

Sam jerked in a shallow sleep and awoke, lifting her head from her curled up position in the easy chair she'd set next to John's bed. They were in his apartment, with the door bolted. Sam had a shot gun next to the chair, her handgun was in the chair with her, and extra rounds were in her pockets. Finch had thought it a wise precaution just in case they were followed somehow. Drug lords could be nasty when they wanted to be.

Sam uncoiled her legs, letting the blood flow freely into them again, and sat up in the chair. She checked the clock on the night stand. It was a little after three thirty in the morning. Letting out a groan, she got to her feet. Her gun thudded onto the floor. Sam jumped and blatantly shushed it as she approached the bed to check on John. In the semi-dark room, his color looked a little better and he was breathing steadily. Sam had seen him bruised up before, but never this bad. The poor man had really taken a beating.

She absently brushed his short hair away from his forehead as she checked the IV that hung from the coat rack she and Finch had rigged up next to his bed. The bag was nearly empty, and his temperature was down, which was a relief. He'd been close to feverish when they got him to the hospital that morning because of whatever drugs were in his system.

Sam stepped away from the bed, stretched and shuffled her way into the bathroom, where she washed her face. A flash of John's bloodied face and his unfamiliar gaze went through her mind again. She had thought of little else the entire day, even when she knew he would be fine and back to normal soon.

Sam had been scared before. She'd been horrified, frightened, and panicked. But, seeing John that way, weakened to the point that he was nearly dead, chilled her to her very core. John was solid. He was a veritable, dependable rock that she had leaned on countless times before. In that cellar, when she looked at him for the first time in months, he was nearly broken, and it was terrifying. It also infuriated her.

That's why she was able to pull the trigger so easily on the way out of that place. She had to get John back to the way he was. If anyone stood in her way, she wouldn't hesitate in dealing with them. And that's exactly what happened. Sam didn't know if she killed that man or not. And as she patted her face dry with a towel in John's bathroom, she found that she was still too numb to wonder about it.

Sam yawned and stretched again as she walked out into the main room. Even thinking about it then, if she had the time, she would have taken that fire poker and shoved it right up that guy's –

John inhaled sharply, and seemed to shock himself awake. He bolted upright, his arms reaching out as he let out a low yell.

Sam rushed to the bedside. "Whoa, whoa! Calm down, it's okay. You're okay, John," she hushed him gently and pushed him back down onto the bed. "You wake up like you're in the middle of a war zone," she joked. Then, after a moment's thought, she said: "Never mind."

"Where did you come from?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a mack truck," he mumbled. He lay back down on the pillow, his eyes half closed and his voice gravelly.

"Nah, you would look better if that had happened."

Sam never would have pictured her reunion with John to occur in such a way. He was lying in bed, injured, in the early hours of the morning, looking at her in the dark. It had been a while since she felt that she was being looked at. John was really the only person who instilled that in her. For some reason, Sam could always _feel_ when he was looking at her.

John looked her over slowly, as if he was taking in every detail. "You cut your hair."

"Yeah," Sam looked away, feeling the blush come from her neck. She ran her hand through her hair as she sat down on the mattress next to his legs. "A couple of times actually. I just wanted a change, I guess."

"Why did you come back if you wanted a change?"

"I've been in town for a little while. Harold called me, said you needed help. I figured that our little agreement goes both ways: If you need me, I'll find you." Sam touched his hand, which he pulled away from her. Instead of taking notice of the somewhat cold maneuver, Sam folded her hands in her lap.

John looked at the IV in his arm and moved to take it out, but Sam jumped up again and stopped him. She put her hand over the taped needle in his arm. "No, no. It's counteracting whatever that was in your system. It nearly killed you, John. I'll take it out when it's empty."

Sam moved to the nightstand, turned on a lamp, and then moved the easy chair closer to the bedside. John sat up, and she slipped a couple of pillows behind him as he did so. He winced and inhaled sharply at the pain.

"Careful. You have stitches right here where you were shot," Sam put her hand gently on his left side. "They said you were lucky it didn't hit your kidney."

"You found me," John said. "Are you going to run again?"

"I didn't run," Sam automatically put herself on the defensive as she sat down in the chair.

"What would you call it, Sam?"

"I – " Sam stopped in mid sentence and really looked at him. John's eyes were clear and bright under the bruises, swelling and cuts left from that fire poker beating. His mouth held a slight frown. Han's words from earlier that day entered her mind.

A smile crept its way across Sam's face, like a flower blooming. John squirmed a little. "What is it?"

"John Reese… you missed me," she said triumphantly.

John opened his mouth to reply, but she didn't give him the chance.

"Don't you dare deny it. I was gone, and you noticed!" She propped her elbows next to him on the mattress.

John tried to glare at her, but the effect wasn't complete, probably because it hurt his face to show any kind of expression. He didn't smile, but his frown didn't deepen either. "You still didn't answer my question."

Sam kept her little victory dance to herself. "Come again?"

"Are you going to run again?"

The denial that she ran at all came to her lips again, but she refrained from voicing it a second time. Best to stick with what she was certain of. "Actually, Harold asked me to stick around, at least until your back to one hundred percent. Or, you know, eighty five, ninety…"

"Is there another number?"

"Not yet, but soon, probably." Sam smoothed out the blanket over the edge of the mattress. "John, Harold told me something else too. He said that you've been getting more and more… reckless." Sam met John's eyes, which gave away nothing.

"It's a dangerous job, Sam," John reasoned.

"I know that, but he gave me a few examples of some unnecessary risks you have taken." Sam's words were halted, but she waded through it. "Risking yourself, of course. You'd never do that with anyone else."

"What's your point, Sam?"

Sam held up her hands in front of her innocently. "I just want to remind you that there are a few people who care about your well being, and it would be rude to risk that doing unnecessary heroics."

"Like what you did today?" John's eyes glinted and Sam felt as though she'd just tripped even though she was sitting down. "I wasn't completely out of it."

"Could have fooled me."

"I remember the tear gas and the… was it a fire poker?"

"That they beat you with? Yes," Sam growled a little in her throat. "If I'd had a little more time, I would have taken that damned thing and shoved it right up his – "

"Thank you," John said quietly. "Thank you for finding me."

Sam smiled. She took his hand resting on the mattress. He didn't pull away that time. "You're welcome. Do you remember anything else?"

John shook his head once and winced at the pain. "It's all really fuzzy."

"Just out of curiosity, how many languages to you speak?"

He appeared taken aback by the seemingly strange question. "Five or six… seven, maybe."

"So English," Sam began ticking them off on her fingers.

"Yes."

"German,"

"_Ja_."

"French,"

"_Oui_."

"Arabic, and…?"

"Spanish – "

"_Si!"_ Sam said. "I knew that."

John tried not to smile as he continued, "– two dialects of Arabic, and a passable Russian."

"Say something in Russian," Sam said excitedly.

"No, Sam," John's efforts to keep from smiling were quickly failing.

"Oh, come on. Just a few words?"

"_Je ne vais pas dire quelque chose en Russie_."

It wasn't Russian, but Sam smiled anyway. The way John flipped his r's and the way his voice changed a little in tone when he spoke in a different language was quite pleasant to listen to.

"You should do that more often."

"For your entertainment? I don't think so," John smiled a little despite the denial. "It's good to see you, Sam."

John squeezed her hand and Sam felt John, her dependable rock, coming back to her again. "You too. It'll be even better to see you when your face gets back to normal. Lie back down, you need to rest. I'll get you another ice pack."

Sam released John's hand and walked across the apartment to the kitchen.

* * *

Just over a day later, Sam sat in a parked black Lincoln in an older residential neighborhood. It was early afternoon, and she just got back into the car after stretching her legs for a few minutes.

She picked up the digital camera with the telescopic attachment and looked through it again. The car was parked on a street corner that connected to a wide residential street, which held rows of nearly identical houses. Sam peered through the windshield at a house two down from the one in front of her. She could see into the front window and part of the side kitchen window.

A woman was dusting furniture in the front room as one of the children of the household, a little girl, ran up to her to show her a picture in a coloring book.

"Still nothing," Sam said.

"You've said that every five minutes for the past hour, Miss Watts," Finch said through her earpiece. "We both need to be patient."

"I don't know, Finch. It seems like a happy family. Mr. Kits works long hours and drinks a little more than I'd prefer, but other than that – "

"The Machine is never wrong, Sam," Finch cut her off with that voice of absolute certainty. "The youngest daughter is our concern, as it is her number the Machine gave us. I've been looking into her visits to the emergency room, but someone is keeping a tight lid on the records. I was considering breaking into the hospital just to find an old chart."

"Breaking and entering?" Sam smiled as she set the camera down. "That doesn't sound like you at all Harold. I'm sure you can get the records using methods more inside your comfort zone."

"I'm beginning to wonder," Finch said. "I'll keep looking."

"She doesn't seem sick at all to me." Sam picked up the camera again as another little girl, the youngest named Ellie, bounced into the room and tried taking the coloring book from her older sister. Ellie was three, her sister, Caroline, was five. "They both keep Mrs. Kits on her toes all freaking day. I bet the woman is looking forward to getting the older one into Kindergarten once school starts up again. It'll give her at least half of a break."

Another thought came to Sam as she spoke. "Finch, don't you think that the hospital stuff is for regular accidents that happen to a hyper three year old?"

"For cuts, bruises, maybe a broken bone, but the dates Ellie Kits was admitted into the ER greatly outnumber any amount of childhood accidents."

"How many?"

"It looks like… eight, maybe nine times in the past year."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Abuse?"

"By whom? According to you the parents aren't the type."

"Well, it definitely wouldn't be the mother, and she's home with them all day. Has Caroline been to the hospital as many times?"

"I'm checking."

Finch went quiet for a moment as Sam set the camera down on the passenger seat. The surveillance bit was the hardest of the job, she was beginning to discover. She'd done some of her own before, but she had rarely been alone. John was usually with her, or Finch, or even Detective Fusco sometimes. Surveying on your own was rough.

Sam didn't have any more time to dwell on it though. The front passenger side door opened and John sat down – then he got up, handed the camera to Sam, and sat down again, closing the door.

'What the hell are you doing here?" Sam snapped at him, mostly to release some of her shock. "You're supposed to be resting. That's why I'm here, remember?"

John looked at her with a hint of a smile. "I'm tired of resting."

"I doubt you finished that whole book of sudoku I gave you. I knew I should have tied you to that bed like a mental patient."

"John never stays still for long, you know that," Finch said obviously.

"It hasn't even been two days," Sam put her finger to her earpiece. "Harold, did you tell him where I was?"

"No, I did not," Finch said innocently. "But that would hardly stop him, would it?"

"What have we got?" John asked.

"_We_ have not got anything," Sam replied snidely. "Let me see your face."

John turned and looked at her fully. Sam squinted at him. He did look better. The cuts were healing nicely and the bruises on his temples and jaw were already turning from a deep purple to a yellow. The swelling was basically gone. John looked much more like John.

He used her distraction to grab the camera from her. Sam reached out to snatch it away from him, but he held it out of her reach.

"It doesn't help if you don't know what you're supposed to be looking at."

"So why don't you tell me?"

As he spoke, Sam watched a beige pickup pull into the Kits' driveway.

"Mr. Kits is home early," she said to Finch.

John caught on instantly and pointed the camera to the correct house, watching Mr. Kits get out of the truck.

Sam snatched the camera back from him once he let his guard down, and looked through it. Mr. Kits entered the house and greeted his wife with a kiss. He was tall, broad shouldered. Finch had already reported that he worked construction, so his physique wasn't exactly a surprise.

Sam placed her phone on the middle console and set it on speaker.

"Where are the girls?" Mr. Kits asked.

"In their room probably," Mrs. Kits answered. "I'm going to take Caroline to the store with me. Will you watch Ellie?"

"Sure," he said happily.

They walked out of the front room. Sam put the camera down.

"Ellie is our number. She's three years old," she explained. "All we have are some mysterious visits to the emergency room that Finch is getting records on. I haven't had much luck with watching the father, but from what I've seen, he's just a normal guy who loves his little girls," Sam shrugged.

"Caroline has not been admitted to the emergency room in the past year," Finch reported.

"What is it about this one little girl, then? Is it a baby sitter?"

John turned up the volume on the phone. "It might be."

"Can I come, Mommy?" Ellie's voice came through the transmission of Mrs. Kits' phone. "Please?"

"Don't you want to stay here with Daddy? I'm just getting some groceries."

"No, I wanna come," Ellie sounded a little desperate.

"Why doesn't she want to stay with her Dad?" John asked the car at large. "You said you haven't watched a lot of Mr. Kits."

Sam stared at her phone. "No, no I didn't. He works all hours. But it's only been about a day so – "

"Please, Mommy?"

"Stay and play with Daddy, sweetie. I'll be back soon. Caroline!" Mrs. Kits shouted. "Get your shoes on!"

"No way," Sam muttered under her breath as she came to a chilling conclusion. "No freaking way."

"Finch, see if you can match Ellie's ER visits with the days Mr. Kits has come home early from work."

"Already on it," Finch said.

"Did you clone Mr. Kits' phone?"

"I managed it, yeah," Sam tapped a few indicators on her phone as Mrs. Kits walked out the front door with Caroline in tow.

Mr. Kits watched them through the front window as they pulled out of the driveway in an old Ford sedan. Once they drove away, he closed the curtains over the window.

"Ellie," Mr. Kits called loudly. "Where are you sweetheart?"

"No way!" Sam said in dismay. "How can he? Why does he - ?"

"The dates match, Sam," Finch's voice was stiff over the phone. At least she wasn't the only one who couldn't believe it.

"Are you playing hide and seek? I'm going to find youuuu," Mr. Kits said in a light, sing-song voice that suddenly creeped the hell out of Sam.

"She's hiding from him on purpose," John said.

"Harold, you might want to tip off Carter or Fusco," Sam said as she grabbed her phone, and got out of the car, drawing her gun.

John followed suit, but stopped when he saw Sam staring at him over the hood of the car.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asked.

"I'm going to keep that bastard from hurting his little girl," John shrugged as though it was obvious.

"Are you in the closet?" Mr. Kits' voice still came over the speaker in Sam's phone. "Nope, you're not in here."

"Oh no," Sam shook her finger at John. "I'm not going to have your face messed up again. I'll shoot him before you get to wrestle with him. You shouldn't even be here! Stay in the car." She slammed the car door and started across the street.

There was a certain thrill to it, ordering John around like that. She'd never done it before. Not that it helped. John caught up with her easily and passed her when they reached the sidewalk.

"John!" Sam hissed, running up to him. "You'll pull your stitches!"

"It's a good thing you're here in case that happens, isn't it?" He said smugly.

Sam grabbed onto his arm and made him face her. They stood on the sidewalk in front of the house.

"Don't be stupid," Sam said. "I'm here because you couldn't be here."

"Now we're both here."

"I'm not going to have you beaten all to hell again," Sam said harshly.

"As long as there are no fire pokers - "

"You might want to settle this soon," Finch said irritably.

"I _found_ you!" Mr. Kits said.

They heard Ellie's shocked scream over the phone. John and Sam bolted toward the house.


	5. Excuse

"His wife must be the dumbest woman alive," Sam said as they reached the front porch.

"Or she may just be turning a blind eye," Finch said.

"Well, that's worse!"

"You take the front, I'll head toward the back," John said.

"John!" Sam snapped quietly at him as he disappeared around the house.

"Can I watch TV, Daddy?"

"Sure, sweetheart," Mr. Kits said sickeningly.

Sam turned off the speaker on her phone and the audio went directly to her earpiece again.

"But, don't you want to be with Daddy first?"

Sam had to fight back her gag reflex. The poor girl was a helpless three-year-old! Sam couldn't think of a word that applied to the evil Mr. Kits was.

"Daddy, no," Ellie said in a quiet, little voice. "Please, I don't want to."

"Just don't fight me. You remember what happened last time? Don't you love me, Ellie? I love you so much."

"I love you, Daddy."

The transmission went quiet for a few seconds. Sam tried the front door. It was open. She opened it quietly, pointing her weapon into the front room.

"No!" Ellie squeaked and started to cry.

Sam heard a loud smack and Ellie cried even louder. She panicked, went back to the front door and banged hard on it.

"Hello? Miranda, are you home?" She said, calling Mrs. Kits in what she hoped was a nice, neighborly voice. Sam ran back into the front room, down the hallway and heard Ellie scream again.

The scream was followed by a grunt and a loud thud. Sam got to the end of the hallway to see little Ellie, half dressed and her lip bleeding, run out from a bedroom.

"Ellie? My name is Sam," Sam squatted down in front of the little girl. "Are you okay?"

"Daddy – "

"I know, I know sweetie. He won't hurt you again."

A sharp yell came from inside the bedroom, gaining Sam's attention. She pushed Ellie protectively behind her and moved into the doorway just as John was flung across the room onto the bed.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Mr. Kits growled as he stormed at him, going for another round.

John's face was coated in sweat and he was breathing heavily. He winced in pain as Mr. Kits picked him up by the collar and balled up his fist. "Bit off a little more than you could chew, eh? Say goodbye to that pretty face."

Sam raised her weapon. "Stop! Touch his pretty face, and I'll blow yours off. Put him down. Now." She stepped into the room, her gun trained on Mr. Kits' forehead.

Mr. Kits was about the same height as John, but John was a lot leaner and was still recovering from the world record holder of illegal interrogations. The advantage was very evident, and Mr. Kits saw it. Instead of doing as Sam said, Mr. Kits took John by the throat and the hair on top of his head, and held John in front of him. John's body covered most of Sam's target.

"Or what, sweetheart?"

Sam's anger flared. He had called her sweetheart, the same thing he called his daughter who trusted him. Now, he held John in front of him like a human shield. The world would be better she just killed this man here and now.

"Give me an excuse," Sam said quietly.

"What?"

"Give me an excuse to kill you. Go on, do it. I desperately want you to," Sam said truthfully, moving forward slowly. "You torture your little girl just to satisfy your own diseased head. The lowest part of hell is reserved for men just like you. I wouldn't mind sending you there. I will kill you. Just give me an excuse. Do it." Her voice raised in volume and her body began to tremble. "Make a move. Come on, I haven't got all day. Give it to me. Do it!" she screamed.

She must have looked at least a little frightening because Mr. Kits didn't move at all. Her sincerity must have kept him there. John kept very still. He wasn't giving her a signal for any kind of action. Why? He was waiting for her to shoot.

"I'll kill him before you get a shot off," Mr. Kitts bluffed, tightening his grip on John.

Sam glared nastily at him as she went over which exposed body part she could hit without risking John any further. It's already gone on too long. Don't let it drag out. Get it done. "You're not that fast." Sam fired as John elbowed Mr. Kits in the ribs.

Mr. Kits hit the floor as John reached for Sam. She grabbed onto him and helped keep him upright as Mr. Kits groaned on the floor.

"Daddy?" Ellie stood next to Sam, her little hands tugging her shirt down over her legs.

"Ellie, are you hurt?" Sam looked down as Ellie looked up and met her eyes. She shook her head as sirens were heard, approaching the house.

"Daddy's hurt."

"He'll be okay," Sam helped John over to the bed and he sat down, taking deep breaths to get through the pain. Sam stepped on the bullet wound in Mr. Kits' shoulder as she walked back over to Ellie. Mr. Kits screamed and cursed at her.

"Ellie, listen to me," Sam took the little girl's hand. "What your Daddy was doing to you is wrong. Do you understand? He shouldn't be hurting you like that. The police are coming, and I want you to tell them what he was doing to you. Do you promise?"

Ellie looked at her father, then back at Sam. She nodded her head.

"Good," Sam smiled and brushed Ellie's hair away from her face. "My friend and I have to go now. Remember your promise, okay?"

"Okay," Ellie nodded again.

Sam got to her feet, and saw John standing next to her. "Are you going to make it?" she asked.

"I'm fine. We need to go."

"Just one more thing," Sam went up to Mr. Kits and stamped down hard on his groin before she turned and joined John in the doorway.

* * *

Wireless call: Wednesday, Sept. 12 3:49am

_It would be so good for us._

_ I know it._

_ Well, what do you think?_

_ It's not a matter of what I think. It's a matter of what's right and wrong. She's done good by us. All of us._

_ Yeah, right. _

_ It's true._

_ Whatever you say._

Threat Detected…

* * *

After taking a closer look at Ellie Kits' injuries, past and present, Mr. Elliot Kits was arrested and charged with child molestation, abuse, child endangerment and, after they searched his work and home computers, possession of child pornography. Sam would have preferred just to shoot him a few times. But, this time at least, the system seemed to work.

Back in her studio apartment a couple days later, Sam slid in her socks on the hardwood floor from the bathroom into the main room. The entire place blasted with the sound of The Killers. Holding a broom, Sam danced in cut off sweats and a t-shirt to the thudding bass as she sang along:

_There was an open chair_

_We sat down in_

_ the open chair_

_ I said if destiny's kind_

_ I've got the rest on my mind_

_ But my heart_

_ it don't beat_

_ it don't beat the way – _

Sam froze in mid chorus and stared at the person who was looking too amused for his own good. John sat on the arm of the couch, his arms folded, and looked thoroughly entertained. Sam's eyes darted around for just a second before she started dancing and singing again. She danced past John into the kitchen.

_And my eyes, they don't see you no more_

_and my lips, they don't kiss_

_ they don't kiss the way they used to_

_ and my eyes _

_ don't recognize you at all_

Sam continued with the rest of the song. Once it ended, she shut off the player.

"Hey, how's the cripple?" She said as she stood in front of him.

All that did was get her a sharp look.

"Oh yeah, and stop sneaking into my apartment," she added.

"I have to keep my skills sharp, Sam."

"Well, sneak into Finch's apartment."

"I probably would if I knew where it was."

Sam gaped at him. "You don't know where Finch – well, 'lives' is kind of a strong word –" that got a little smile "– dwells? Or sleeps. Sleeps works. Wow, he's more paranoid than I thought."

John let out a soft laugh. "What were you doing?"

"Cleaning. I haven't been here in a while, everything was a mess, and I think something exploded in the refrigerator," Sam gestured to the kitchen were a couple of fans were blowing.

"A new number came up early this morning," John said casually.

"Yes?" Sam eyed him suspiciously.

"Number_s_, actually, two of them. A husband and wife."

"They're going to kill each other."

"While that is always a possibility, we need to get some evidence either way."

"We." Sam felt her hesitation well up again. Before she left, she would have insisted on helping with the case. Now, she was afraid. The frustrating part was that she didn't know exactly what she was afraid of.

"Finch always complained about being my fake wife while you were gone," John smiled.

Sam laughed loudly. "Is that what you need? Are we going somewhere as Mr. as Mrs. Rooney?"

"Not just yet." John pulled a couple of papers from his suit jacket and handed them to Sam. They were photographs of a man and woman. The man was dark with brown eyes, and a large build. The woman was fair, blonde and blue eyed. "Mr. and Mrs. Powell. Mr. Powell works as a private body guard. His wife is a homemaker – "

"Excuse me," Sam said seriously. "I believe the term is Household Engineer, thank you very much."

"She gives piano lessons a few days a week."

"Kids?"

"None."

"Are you back to one hundred percent?"

John sized her up. "I'd say more around seventy five, eighty."

Sam and John looked at each other for a long time after she finished with the photos. "Oh all right," she caved.

John took the photos and put them back in his jacket. "I wanted to ask you about what happened at that house."

Sam looked away from him. "What about it?"

"'Give me an excuse'?" He lifted his eyebrows.

Sam shrugged. "What? Was it too Rambo for you?"

"You saved that scared little girl – "

"So did you," Sam interrupted, fearing where he was going with that train of thought. "In fact, I wanted to ask you something too. John, you –" she stopped, watching his expectant face… and chickened out. "Never mind."

"You were going to kill him, weren't you? I was convinced, and I think he was as well."

Sam paused and met his eyes. "I wanted to, so, so badly. He hurt that sweet little girl, and he was holding you by the hair. What would you have done?"

"Exactly what you did," John said with certainty. "I would have thought about killing him. I might have done it, too. That's the monster," he looked away and smiled a little, but Sam knew it made him feel horrible.

"You're wrong," Sam said, equally as certain. "You can never be a monster, John. I know you believe that you are, but you aren't. That guy was evil, he was a monster, preying on his own daughter like that. You could never do that. I swear, John, I'm going to convince you that you're still a good man if it kills me!" Sam stopped herself and realized only after the fact that she had just said all of those things. "I'm sorry."

"Why? It just might kill you."

* * *

After a quick shower, and a change of clothes, Sam was in the familiar yet seedy abandoned library that was HQ. She stood next to Finch, who sat in the computer chair, the half a dozen monitors glowing at him with different programs open in each one.

"Camera's up, Finch," John's voice came through the computer speakers.

Finch typed at the keyboard and after a couple of mouse clicks a new window popped up in one of the monitors. Sam leaned forward, squinting at the video feed that just came up. It was a live surveillance video of a large entryway to someone's house. John stood just off to one side and looked up at the camera. He was in a dark suit, wearing a black neck tie.

"Got it?" They heard and saw him as he spoke.

"Well done, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "I don't understand why this angle wasn't the original position of the camera in the first place. This covers much more area."

"Where is he?" Sam asked.

"Mr. Reese is standing in the foyer of the Willman penthouse on Central Park West," Finch explained. "This is his first day on the job as a body guard trainee. Mr. Powell is the usual body guard for Mrs. Angela Willman."

"Nice," Sam said when she understood. "What have you found out so far?" She sat down in a chair next to Finch.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Powell are your average couple. They are active in their community, they pay their taxes. It's all very… normal. At least it was until I came across the records of frequent visits to the doctor by Mrs. Powell."

"How many?"

"Many. Since March, actually."

Sam was watching John as she spoke when, into the camera frame, walked an extremely large man. Sam choked a little. "Is that Powell? Look at the size of him!" Sam stammered.

"Mr. Rooney?" Powell was saying over the speakers. Sam watched him shake hands with John.

"That's me," John answered.

"Right on time, man. Come on, I'll show you around." They walked out of the frame together.

"How tall would you say John is, Finch?"

"According to his records, he is six two, if I'm remembering correctly."

Sam stared at Finch for a moment, shook her head and continued. "That guy is at least a head taller than him, maybe more. He's at least twice as big!"

"What's your point?"

"I'm just hoping that he's the victim of whatever is going on here."

Finch nodded once in understanding.

"Did you just move into town?" Powell asked John in a deep, throaty voice.

"No. I've lived here for a while now."

"No place like it, is there?"

"No, not really."

Finch leaned forward. "It would help if you engaged him a little more, Mr. Reese," he said loudly.

"John's never good for small talk," Sam said.

"How long have you been on the job?" John asked.

"Ten years," Powel replied proudly. "It's decent money if you get to the right people. And I can't complain. Mrs. W introduced me to my wife."

"Oh, that's sweet," Sam said automatically. "How long have they been married?"

"How long have you been married?"

"Four years. Have a baby on the way too." Sam could hear the pride practically exploding from Powell as he spoke about the new baby.

She exchanged a look with Finch. "Oh," they said in perfect synchronization. The doctor's visits were now explained.

"Congratulations," John said.

"Now I really hope he's the victim, Finch," Sam said.

"We'll see," Finch said.

"That's kind of funny, Mr. Powell – "

"Hey, call me Tace," Powell said immediately.

"You got it," John agreed. "It's funny because my wife is expecting as well."

"What?" Sam said.

"No kidding!" Powell said happily. "Congratulations, man! Is it your first?"

"First what? John, what are you doing?" Sam leaned over Finch's shoulder, shouting into the microphone.

"Yeah."

"How's she handling it?"

"John!"

"It was a surprise at first, but she's excited," John continued speaking calmly as though there was not a crazed person shouting in his ear.

"It might be helpful, Sam," Finch said reasonably. "We need to get close to Mrs. Powell as well."

"There are other ways of doing that," Sam snapped. "He's doing this on purpose. You're doing this on purpose!" she shouted into the microphone.

"Tace," someone called for Powell.

"Oh, hang on. That's Mrs. W. Wait out here, I'll introduce you in a minute. I kind of have to get her used to the idea that I'm training someone in her house first."

"No problem," John said.

"John, I don't think Finch would look quite right playing your pregnant wife." Sam said, sounding strangely calm.

"Powell seems like a good enough guy," John said. "It might be Mrs. Powell we have to watch out for."

"Yeah, the pregnant woman who's married to what looks like an NFL defensive lineman," Sam said sarcastically.

"Come on, Sam. I need you to be the mother of my child for a little while."

Sam heard the smile in his voice. "Worst. Pickup line. Ever. John, that is probably the least romantic thing you've ever said to me. And that includes, 'Hey, shut up Sam,'" she said in a very convincing imitation of John's voice. "You should at least ask me to dinner first."


	6. Motive

Sam pulled the top over her head and sighed. It was light weight and voluminous, with a bright floral print. Looking on the bright side, however, Sam was grateful for the fact that it did still fit her in some places, rather than act like a muumuu from the neck down. Another thing that was a bonus was the fact that she was wearing comfortable yoga pants as opposed to jeans or slacks. Stretchy was always better.

She arranged her faux tummy halfway under the waist band of the pants and stood up straight for the effect. The top lay nicely over the fake pregnancy belly, draping over and around it as it should.

"Are you doing all right, Miss Watts?" Finch called to her.

Sam rolled her eyes and held back a sharp retort. "I'm fine, Harold. I'm coming out."

She slipped on a pair of flats and walked out from behind the book shelves into the main room of HQ. Finch stood up from the desk and looked her over critically, his finger to his chin.

Sam turned to the side. "One good thing about this belly band is that it's a perfect place to put my gun," Sam pulled at the thick piece of stretchy fabric around her waist that held her fake belly in place. Her weapon was tucked snuggly into it at the back. "Do you think it should be lower?" She asked uncertainly, fiddling with the pants again.

"No, no," Finch said. "I think its just right. You're positively glowing."

"Shut up." Sam straightened up and sighed. "I feel like a bus."

"Trust me, you don't look like one," Finch said. "Mr. Reese is finishing his shift with Mr. Powell. I looked through Mr. Powell's calendar and found an opportunity for you to meet Mrs. Powell." He moved back to the desk and sat down.

"Doing what?" Sam followed him, hoping her new belly wouldn't move around on her too much.

"You can't walk like that, Sam," Finch said. His large, bird like eyes were studying her closely again.

"Like what?"

"Like you're not carrying an extra twenty to thirty pounds of weight."

"Right," Sam said. "I'll have to practice my waddle on my way to wherever I'm going."

"Of course, yes," Finch turned back to the computer. "Mrs. Powell will be attending a Lamaze class this evening. I've taken the liberty of signing you up for the class. I am safely assuming that her husband will be meeting her there after his shift… as will yours, so to speak."

"He'd better," Sam said irritably. "When Eva was pregnant, Leo forgot about one of the Lamaze classes, and I had to go with her in his place. People thought we were a lesbian couple with a donor baby. Nobody likes a deadbeat husband." Sam smiled despite her general grumpiness at the situation. What she neglected to mention was the fact that she and Eva, her best friend, played up the lesbian act in the class.

"At least you are familiar with class itself," Finch said.

"Yeah, it's just a bunch of breathing and stuff," Sam waved her hand at the idea. "I just have to make sure I don't pass out."

"It may also help if you recall how Eva behaved when she was pregnant. Physically, that is."

Sam nodded. She had helped pull Eva out of so many couches and easy chairs during that time. She also remembered how Eva leaned on Leo's arm a little when they walked together – well, Leo walked, Eva waddled. "Yeah, that would help make it convincing. So, where and when is this class?"

* * *

The first thing that Sam noticed was that she couldn't sit normally, otherwise the fake belly almost folded in on itself and caused weird creases in her clothing. She had to sit like a pregnant woman in the taxi on the way to the class, leaning back in the seat. She also had to slide out and stand up like a pregnant woman, using the door to pull herself up and out of the seat.

Strangely, however, she found herself absent mindedly resting her hands on her stomach. And, for fear of jostling the belly out of position, she found that the slower, waddling type of walk came almost naturally.

"Finch?"

"I'm here."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

There was a long pause over the line. Sam smiled and put her finger to her earpiece, making sure it was still working.

"I don't suppose that matters very much in what we're trying to do."

"But I'll be asked. I look like I'm in my third trimester. We'd know what kind of baby it is by now."

"Perhaps you want to be surprised? I believe some parents don't like to find out until the baby is born."

"John doesn't like surprises. But he just might be in for one," Sam joked... mostly.

Another thing she was beginning to notice about being pregnant was that more people were nicer to you. Doors were held open all over the place, seats were given up. While Sam was crossing the street with a group of people, one man stayed back with her, walking at her pace until she got to the opposite side. It almost made her feel bad that she was psyching everyone out, in a way.

Sam arrived at the address Finch provided. It was a gym. A nicely built guy exiting the gym held the door open for her, and she went inside.

Following the signs for the evening class, which was on the second floor, Sam decided to take the stairs, just to get more moving practice in. She took each step slowly and leaned on the railing as she'd seen Eva do. It wasn't difficult, but it was maddeningly slow work.

Once she reached the second floor, Sam entered a large room, littered with mats over a thin carpet. It was probably normally used as a room for Yoga classes or something similar. Sam stopped next to the doorway and took Mrs. Powell's photograph out of her purse.

She then looked into the room, scanning over the faces of those who had already arrived. There were several women by themselves, others had arrived with their slightly hovering significant other. Sam didn't see Mr. Powell, he would be hard to miss. But Mrs. Powell was there already, standing alone, looking down at her phone.

Sam took a breath, pushed her hair back and entered the room.

"All right ladies, let's get started! Everyone get comfy on a mat." An excited voice startled them all, and Sam looked up to see a woman who looked like she didn't like to bathe very often. Her hair was long and straight, going down her back. She wore a billowy top and a long skirt. Sam squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again just to make sure that what she was looking at was real.

"I'm going to _murder_, John," Sam muttered.

"What is it?" Finch asked.

Sam didn't answer. Everyone was settling onto their mats. Sam muscled her way next to Mrs. Powell.

"Is anyone in this spot?" Sam pointed to the mat next to her.

Mrs. Powell smiled and shook her blonde head. "Looks like you are."

"Thanks," Sam watched Mrs. Powell for a minute as she tried to get down onto the mat. Sam took her arm and let Mrs. Powell lean on her as she sat down.

"Thank you," Mrs. Powell said breathlessly. "But how will you make it down here?" She asked, looking up.

"Well, my husband should be here. I might just stand here and wait for him," Sam laughed.

Mrs. Powell shared her laugh. "Mine should be here too."

"Come on deary, down on your mat," the instructor from Granola Hell took a hold of Sam's arm and helped her down onto the floor.

"All right, ladies! My name is Candle and I'll be your instructor for this class," she announced as she moved back to the front. "Childbirth is a natural and beautiful thing - !"

"I'm sorry," Sam raised her hand. "You said your name is Kendal?"

"Candle," Candle said, clearly irritated that her spiel about mother nature's beauty had been interrupted.

"Like the thing that you light on birthday cakes?"

"Exactly, yes."

"Just making sure," Sam said innocently. She looked over at Mrs. Powell as Candle continued. She was hiding her laughter.

"Sorry," Sam said quietly.

"Don't be," Mrs. Powell chuckled. "We had a much better instructor last week. I'm already regretting coming here tonight because of her."

"I'm Sam," Sam held out her hand, introducing herself.

"Mel," Melanie Powell shook Sam's hand and smiled.

"I want all of the mommy's to be sitting up straight with your legs crossed in front of you, like so," Candle sat down on her mat in front of the class and demonstrated. "If you have a partner, he or she should have a supportive hand in the middle of mommy's back."

As the class assumed the position a large, dark skinned man entered the room. He spotted Mel and smiled as he stepped over and around everyone else to get to her.

Mr. Powell knelt down beside her and kissed her on the cheek. "Hey baby, sorry I'm late," his voice was deep and velvety. Sam could have listened to him read the entire works of William Shakespeare and not tire of his voice. "I've been training someone."

Mel pressed a finger to her lips and nodded at Candle, who was talking to the rest of the class.

"Sorry," Mr. Powell said in a quieter voice.

Sam scooted over a little on her mat, closer to the Powells, making it look as though she was adjusting her position to something more comfortable. She listened as she tried to perform the breathing exercises at the same time.

"You're training someone? Does that mean what I think it means?"

"He'll be ready to take over by the time the baby comes," Tace Powell smiled broadly. "Mrs. W finally gave me the OK a couple days ago."

"That's so great," Mel breathed a sigh of relief. "I was really worried that you'd have to work all hours."

Sam cleared her throat and groaned as Candle brought out a guitar.

"Oh, lordie," Mel said when she saw her.

"Yeah, now we're in for it," Sam muttered.

Mel laughed. "Tace, this is Sam," she gestured to her husband. "Sam, this is my husband, Tace Powell."

Sam smiled and shook his enormous hand. "Pleasure to meet you, and I'm sorry you have to suffer with the rest of us."

"Mr. Reese hasn't arrived yet?" Finch asked in her ear piece.

Candle began strumming her guitar to what she thought was the rhythm of the breathing exercise. All it did was add noise in the already awkward room. Sam used the distraction to answer Finch quietly. "Not yet."

Sam continued breathing slowly, her hands on her fake belly, keeping her back straight. She stopped when she became dizzy and felt herself tipping backwards. As she caught herself, a supportive hand pressed onto her back and helped keep her upright.

"Hi honey," John's voice was in her ear. "Sorry, I got a little lost getting here." He knelt down next to her, loosening his necktie as he did so. He looked at Candle with her guitar. Her eyes were closed and she was swaying, chanting something about the Miracle of Life.

Most of the class looked like they were doing their own thing, practicing techniques that were actually useful, thus leaving Candle in her own little miraculous world.

Sam nearly burst out laughing when John looked back at her. "What the hell is this?" he asked quietly.

"We are becoming one with the miracle of nature," Sam whispered back as she waved her hands dramatically at him and snorted.

"John!" Tace said in a booming voice. "Fancy meeting you here!"

John and Sam looked up as Tace explained how he knew John to his wife. John smiled and returned the greeting, shaking Mel's hand.

The guitar made an ugly clanging noise as Candle seemed to remember where she was. She leaped to her feet. "All right!" she shouted. "Partners, get close behind mommy – "

"If she calls us 'mommy' one more time,.. " Sam grumbled and Mel snickered. "We're not _her_ mommy!"

"Let her lean up against you, so you can breathe together, as one – bringing this wonderful life into the world!"

"That's it," Sam moved to get up, but John kept her on the mat and sat behind her.

Sam reluctantly leaned back, resting her arms on his knees, and felt him breathing next to her.

"Same rhythm, keep it steady, and together, synchronized. Because you will be working together on raising this miracle! You, mommy and partner, will be as one. Partners, it is your job to support mommy, let her lean on you, take some of the weight."

Candle began walking around, talking to the individual couples.

Sam looked over at Mel, who was nearly swallowed up, being supported by Tace's bulk.

"You're not breathing, Sam," John said to her. "And you're not leaning on me."

"You can _not_ be comfortable doing this? There is no purpose for this at all."

"When you're under cover, you're comfortable with everything."

Sam scooted back further and rested against John, who squirmed a little.

"Is that your gun?" he whispered.

"I hope so."

John reached around her and took her hands in his as they breathed. Sam didn't know what to think about the entire situation. Yes, they were undercover in one of the strangest situations she'd ever been in. Yes, she was wearing a faux pregnancy belly around her waist. The position, and the environment was not terribly comfortable. The only reaction she had was laughter.

"Was this in your job description?" she asked John.

"Not that I saw, no." His breathing changed as he laughed.

Sam settled herself against him and laughed some more. It was all she could think to do, especially since, in spite of how ridiculous the situation, she had the strange yet familiar feeling that she fit quite nicely there.

"Sorry to break it up, but we may have to rush the rest of the technique."

"What have you got?" John asked, lowering his head close to Sam's so she would be the only one to hear.

"I've done a little digging on Mrs. Willman, the woman Mr. Powell works for. She's terribly wealthy, and her extended family knows it all too well. The woman is seventy five, and it appears that she is well aware of the fact that her family is just waiting for her to die."

"So they can inherit," Sam mumbled.

"That's what they believe, yes."

"What's the catch, Finch?" John asked quietly. The stubble on his cheek rubbed against Sam's face. It was all so… familiar.

"Mrs. Willman seems to be taking the general feeling of her family's very personally. I have gotten a hold of a digital copy of the will. It's always good to keep a passworded digital copy in case the hard copy is lost."

Sam laughed a little. "'Gotten a hold of…' You hacked into the network of whatever law firm she uses."

"I've never appreciated that word, Sam," Finch replied.

"Anyway…?" John said impatiently.

"Yes, anyway, it seems that Mrs. Willman has left all of her assets to her body guard and his wife, just to spite her relatives."

John and Sam stopped breathing and sat up straight.

"I think we can refer to that as proper motive," Finch finished their thoughts for them.


	7. Suspects

Sam was the first to relax again and lean back against John, who sat up stiffly behind her. He lowered his lips again to Sam's ear.

"If they've found out, someone will want to take out the Powells quickly and quietly."

"Who would inherit by default, Finch?" Sam asked.

"I'm working on searching through the family, which is extensive. Any one person could have found out about the will and informed the others."

"You met her, John. Does she have any other security besides Powell?"

"There's a guy who's there at night, why?"

"If they're waiting for Mrs. Willman to die, I wouldn't be surprised if they tried taking out all three of them."

"That would be too obvious," Finch said. "The family would be suspected immediately once the will was discovered."

"The Powells are the numbers that came up, Sam," John whispered. "We need to concentrate on them."

Sam giggled all of a sudden and looked lovingly at John.

"What are you doing?"

"We're getting some weird looks," Sam told him. "Comfortable under cover, remember?"

At that information, John smiled and gave her a short peck on the lips.

"What's our next move?"

John considered the question for a moment, glancing at the Powells then back at Sam. "We need to get out of here. We can't be this close to them if we want to see what's coming before they do."

"Now, Mommy and Daddy, you're so stiff!" Candle had made it over to them. Sam exchanged a look with Mel before looking up at the instructor. "That's no position to make baby comfortable." She leaned down and touched Sam on her shoulders, intending to push her back in more of a reclining position.

Sam grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands off. "Touch me again, and die." She felt John forcing back his laughter.

Candle's smile flickered. "Mommy's forcing all of that energy to baby. She'll regret it later on if she doesn't lighten up."

Sam bristled at the condescending, childlike, singsong voice Candle the Insufferable Hippie was putting on. "That's it. Listen you – mmffph fmmph mffpphrt!"

John's hand came over Sam's mouth, muffling the rest of Sam's lashing out at the unsuspecting instructor. "Sorry," he said with a charming smile. "She gets grumpy if she's not fed on time."

Sam made to twist around and sock him, but he held her firmly in place.

"I'd just let her be if I were you," he advised.

Candle nodded and moved on to the Powells.

Sam then seized the opportunity once John removed his hand. "This is your fault. You did this to me!" she shouted at him.

"Sam," John said testily.

"Oh dear," Finch said over their earpieces. "In a way, she's right, Mr. Reese."

Sam squirmed against him. "Now you're talking about me like I'm some overgrown hamster! 'If she's not fed on time… duh, duh, duh'" Sam mimicked his voice in the most unflattering and stupid way possible.

"What are you doing?" John whispered.

"Getting us out," Sam muttered back. "Don't you dare say I'm being irrational!" she shouted. "I hate it when you treat me like I'm just some crazy person who happens to be carrying your overgrown fetus!"

"Come on, we're going home," John said. He lifted Sam up under her arms and carted her out of the room as everyone stared after them.

"Ugh! I don't wanna go home," she whined convincingly.

* * *

They kept the bit up until they were well outside the gym. Sam waddled and held onto John until they reached the car.

"So, what's the plan?" Sam asked as John sat in the driver's seat.

"We wait and keep a close eye on both of them while Finch narrows down the family to a suspect," John answered.

Sam wriggled in the seat, fighting with the faux belly. She looked at John just in time to see his smile before he snatched it away. "Oh no," she said.

"What?"

"You _like_ this," she concluded.

"Like what?"

"This," she waved her hands vaguely over her body. "At least the idea of it. Barefoot and pregnant, right?"

"No," John shook his head once. "Have you found anything, Finch?"

"Not a lot, I'm sorry to say," Finch said. "The family is spread apart. There are a few relatives here in the city, some upstate, the rest are all over the country. The ones who live here are Mrs. Willman's son Nathan and his wife, her brother-in-law, Carl, and the youngest daughter, Cecilia."

"Three suspects," John said.

"Possibly," Finch replied. "The brother-in-law is supposedly out of the city on a cruise."

"Two suspects," Sam corrected, still fidgeting in the seat. "Harold, do I need to wear this anymore?"

"I suppose not for our current purposes."

Before Finch finished the sentence, Sam lifted up the maternity blouse and began messing with the band around her waist. "John, hold this. And this… and this." One by one she pulled out her gun, her phone, and a rolled up shirt from the waist band.

"Do you have a spare car in there?"

"Look at you, being so funny," Sam said sarcastically as she pulled the full contraption over her pants and slid it down her legs. Once it was off, she tossed it into the back seat.

The maternity blouse drowned her as she took the shirt out of John's hands and pulled the blouse off without a question. After a few seconds, Sam sighed out of relief. "You can turn back around now."

John had averted his eyes during the quick change, and looked back at her.

"Next time, _you're_ the pregnant one," she jabbed her finger in the air at him. "I know why you did that, you know."

"What did I do now?" John rolled his eyes, facing the windshield.

"You deliberately put me into that situation when we could have easily dealt with this in a different way."

"You agreed to be the wife, Sam," John said.

"Don't get all technical with me! You did the pregnant thing on purpose to get back at me."

"For what?"

John looked at her and Sam met his eyes. She hesitated. He looked almost as if he were daring her to voice her next thought.

"Let's just say that I know that you know that you missed me, okay?"

"If you say so."

* * *

After Lamaze class ended, Sam and John followed the Powells to dinner. They sat in the car across the street from the restaurant.

The silence in the car was palpable. John kept his eyes on the restaurant across the street, but Sam's mind kept wandering.

When she decided to go back to her apartment, it wasn't two days before John was there. Had he looked for her before? Sam shook the question out of her head. It was meaningless to think like teenager, coming up with fabricated scenario after scenario.

John shifted in his seat and Sam looked up to see him watching her.

"Anything interesting?"

"They're discussing baby names right now." John looked back at the restaurant window then back at Sam.

He pulled out his phone and muted the transmission from Mr. Powell's phone.

"What is it?" Sam asked apprehensively. John rarely did that in the middle of a job. He liked being thorough.

"When did you come back?" he asked.

"Into the city? A little over two weeks ago."

"And you just got back into your apartment?"

"Why? Were you checking?"

John gave her a Look and didn't answer.

"I was staying with Alina. She's back in the city and said I could stay for as long as I wanted."

"Why did you come back, Sam?" John asked quietly.

John was asking the same frustrating questions Sam had been asking herself over and over again. "You didn't want me to come back," she said conclusively. "It's okay, John. I'm serious. You can say it. It'll be good to know what's in your head one way or another."

"I didn't say that."

"Then say it," Sam demanded. She blinked rapidly and looked away from him unaware of what showed on her face.

"Sam,"

She felt his eyes on her again and she forced herself to look at him.

"I can't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not true. That's one thing that's not in my head."

"Then why are you asking me about it?"

"I'm trying to figure out if you're going to run again."

Sam paused in her instant denial as she realized how much of an honest statement that was, coming from John. He was always honest with her, but only to a point. Everything else was hidden away, locked down in that combination safe of a psyche he had. But in that one sentence, Sam saw John Reese. The vault door opened a little more.

Sam opened her mouth to answer but Finch beat her to it.

"There's something odd about that," he muttered to them.

The vault door slammed shut and John put his phone on speaker and they listened.

"I'll see you at home," Mel was saying to her husband.

Sam looked across the street. The couple were exiting the restaurant, and Tace Powell flagged down a cab. John started the car, ready to follow them, but stopped when he saw Tace close the cab door and wave as the taxi pulled away.

"Finch, do you have Mrs. Powell's phone?" John asked.

"I do, what's happening?"

"Trace it and keep an eye on it, will you? They just split up."

"Did she say where she was going?" Sam asked.

"No," Finch answered.

"We have to split up," John looked at Sam.

"Well, Tace can basically take care of himself. I can stay on him, just to make sure nothing surprises him, right? It looks like he's staying on foot for now," Sam watched him through the window. "The petite pregnant woman will probably need you more than me if she were attacked… right John?"

John considered the idea, then nodded. "Right."

Sam grabbed her gun and her phone and got out of the car. "Stay safe, John," she said.

"You too," John gave her a tight lipped smile.

Sam shut the door and headed across the darkening street.

* * *

John caught up to the taxi. It was heading toward Central Park West.

"Is she heading to the Willman's?" Finch seemed to come to the same conclusion that John had.

"Looks like it. Where are you, Sam?"

"Just walking," Sam said through the earpiece. "Powell doesn't seem to want to go anywhere. I don't see anyone else following him. But, I'm not expert."

"You're doing fine. Keep on him," John reassured her.

The taxi pulled up to the curb at the gate and Melanie Powell got out of the back seat. The cab pulled away as she buzzed the intercom.

"Yes?"

"This is Melanie Powell. I wanted to see Angela Willman," she sounded upset.

John opened the car door and got out.

"Finch," he muttered. "Can you cut the feeds to front gate cameras?"

"Give me a few seconds," Finch said.

John strode up to the gate as Mel was buzzed in. She walked through, letting the gate swing back. John caught it just before it closed and locked again.

"The cameras have been diverted."

"Thanks," John said as he entered.

He stayed outside, listening as Mel entered the house and was greeted by Mrs. Willman. John had met the woman earlier that day. She was frail, closed minded as old people often are, and confined to a wheelchair which, in turn, made her unbearably cranky.

"Melanie," John heard Mrs. Willman's voice over the transmission from Melanie's phone. "What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but I just needed someone to talk to."

"Well don't just stand there dear, come in and sit down. Susan! Make us some tea," Mrs. Willman croaked.

"Mother? What's going on? Who is this?" another female voice entered the scene. John didn't recognize it.

"Celia, don't be so rude," Mrs. Willman snapped. "This is Melanie, she's an old friend of mine, and she seems very upset right now."

"I'm sorry," Mel apologized again.

John backed into the shadow of the building as he listened. "This is weird," he mumbled.

"How so?"

"Mrs. Powell has suddenly become upset for some reason. She was fine when she left her husband about fifteen minutes ago."

"Don't be sorry, dear. How can we help?" Mrs. Willman said.

"I don't know how. I just, can I stay here for a little while?"

"Of course you can, dear."

"You look like you're ready for bed," Mel said. "I should go."

"Don't think on it. Ah, have some tea. You don't have to stay, Celia."

"I was going to bed anyway. Pleasure to meet you."

"This isn't right, Finch." John said. "She's alone now with Mrs. Willman. Could we have gotten this the wrong way around?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean," John said as he went to the front door and incapacitated the body guard within seconds. "Could the Powells know about the will and now Mrs. Willman isn't dying fast enough for them?"


	8. Backwards

John waited inside the large apartment, his ears pricked for any sound. He listened to the pointless drivel between the two women until they went to Mrs. Willman's room to talk further. After another twenty minutes he checked with Sam.

"Where are you, Sam?"

"A few blocks from the restaurant. He's still walking, just wandering. I don't think he's actually going anywhere," Sam sounded a little out of breath. It was understandable as she was following a man who was about one and a half times her height.

"Keep talking to me, okay?" John whispered.

"Got it. Where are you?"

"I'm in Mrs. Willman's apartment."

"I've been searching through the Powell's financial records," Finch said over John's earpiece. "The debt they are in is astonishing, even to me. They owe tens of thousands to a couple of banks, credit cards, and there are a few payments being made to unidentified accounts each month. I can only assume that they're less legitimate loans."

"Proper motive," Sam chimed in conclusively.

"Sam, I want you to back off of Tace until we know for sure," John said. "Finch can keep track of him."

"So can I," Sam replied. "He's just walking, John. If anything changes I'll tell you and back off, I promise."

John pursed his lips, holding back a comment regarding Sam's stubbornness. He moved out of the darkened foyer of the apartment. He drew his gun and crept across the parlor to a staircase. Taking two at a time, John leaped up the stairs noiselessly. He slowed when he reached the landing and peered cautiously around the first corner.

The lights were off in most of the house. Melanie Powell and Mrs. Willman had also gone quiet. But, John heard a low mumbling coming from down the long corridor that met with the upstairs landing of the staircase. John headed toward the sound.

One of the doors in the corridor stood open just a crack. A pale, blue light slashed out across the floor of the corridor. The light changed and shifted, moving with the sound John heard. It was a television. Someone must have left it on.

Sliding along the wall until he reached the door frame, John leaned around until he could see through the crack in the door. The room was a large bedroom suite. From his limited point of view, John saw part of Mrs. Willman sitting up in bed. Her head was slumped to one side and she wheezed a little as she slept.

He risked pushing the door open slightly, widening his view, and saw Melanie Powell, sitting in an arm chair next to the bed. She was watching the television on low.

John then questioned his reasoning for being there as he held his weapon ready. Perhaps Mrs. Powell had truly come because she was upset about something, and didn't want to go home. But that still did not explain the strange parting between her and her husband earlier that night.

He watched for another few minutes until Mel moved. She leaned over, as far as her pregnancy belly would allow, and looked at the sleeping Mrs. Willman. Mel pulled herself out of the easy chair and picked up her purse. She sat it on the edge of the bed and rummaged around in it. First, she pulled out her phone, then a long, cylindrical object that John had to squint through the semi-darkness to see.

"Powell keeps checking his phone," Sam said.

"So does his wife," John said under his breath. "Wait…"

"What is it?" Sam asked. "Powell is heading to the subway."

"_Wait_, Sam."

Mel blocked John's view of Mrs. Willman for a moment as he came to the awful conclusion. "It's a syringe. Sam get out of there."

John burst into the room and was at the bedside before Mel turned around fully. He grabbed a hold of her wrist just before she stuck the syringe into Mrs. Willman's right arm. He tightened his grip and forced her arm away from the old woman.

Mel screamed and shouted at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Mrs. Willman snorted and awoke, blinking blearily around the room.

"Sorry Mrs. Powell, you'll have to get your money another way," John said sternly.

Mrs. Willman looked from John to Mel to the syringe still in her hand. "What the hell is all this?" she snapped.

Mel's lips trembled.

"Mother, what the hell – Who are you?" Celia, Mrs. Willman's daughter, entered the room, tying a robe around her waist. She turned on the lights and looked at John, then at the syringe still in Mel's hand. "What is going on?"

"You might want to call the police Miss Willman," John said. "I think Mel here was about to kill your mother."

"It's just morphine!" Mel shouted. "She usually takes morphine when she's in pain."

"A small dose every now and then," Mrs. Willman confirmed.

"How much is in that syringe?" Celia pointed.

John glanced at it, "More than a small dose."

"Why?" Celia demanded.

Mel didn't answer, so John took the liberty.

"You should talk to your mother about her will."

Ceilia's eyes widened with anger. She stormed at Mel, pushing her down into the chair.

"You do not move," she commanded as she picked up the phone next to the bed.

John stepped away from the bed and began to leave.

"Wait just a second young man. Who are you? How did you get in here?" Mrs. Willman demanded angrily.

"I'm the person who just saved your life. And, very easily." John left the room and put his finger to his earpiece. "Everything's good, Finch. We stopped her." He moved down the stairs into the foyer.

"Excellent," Finch replied.

"Sam, where are you?" John stepped out the door and stopped at the gate. "Sam?"

* * *

Sam nearly had to run to keep pace with Mr. Powell. It seemed pointless though. He was wandering aimlessly around the area. He checked his phone again.

"Powell keeps checking his phone," she reported.

"So does his wife," John's voice was quiet on the other end. "Wait…"

"What is it?" Sam asked. Mr. Powell then turned sharply and started down the steps into the subway tunnel. "Powell's heading to the subway."

"_Wait_, Sam."

Sam was already halfway down the stairs into the tunnel. Powell was down there. She slowed her pace and crept down the rest of the stairs into the dimly lit tunnel

"It's a syringe," John said in her ear suddenly. "Sam get out of there."

Sam was about to answer when someone grabbed onto her arm and yanked her around hard. She was flung like a rag doll out of the stairway and into the cement wall of the subway tunnel. Her skull cracked sickeningly against the concrete. Bright, white flashes burst into her vision.

Sam blinked and her stomach lurched at the agonizing pain. Something pinned her against the wall, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't see past the white flashes.

"You're not pregnant," Tace Powell's voice was close to her and very dangerous. "What the hell are you doing? Why are you following me?"

Sam felt like she was going to vomit all over herself and didn't want to risk opening her mouth to answer. "You were gonna kill her," Sam slurred at him. Those were the words she wanted to say, but she had no idea how they came out.

She felt his hands on her, searching. He found her phone and tossed it hard to the concrete, smashing it.

"Kill who?"

"Mrs. Willman – for – for the money," Sam blithered.

Powell slammed her against the wall again, knocking her head back. Sam saw the white flashes, and then the darkness.

* * *

A cool breeze gently woke her. Sam's head was splitting, but it felt clearer at least. She opened her eyes and only saw a large open space in front of her. She panicked and screamed, but something held her there, standing on the edge.

"I don't do this," Powell said behind her. "I never have, at least."

Sam then realized where she was exactly. She was still in the subway with Powell. She must have blacked out for a short while. Now, her toes were on the edge of the platform. She was leaning forward, and Powell held her by the back of her neck.

"I don't know how you found out, but… I have to make sure you don't tell anyone," Powell seemed to be convincing himself as he was telling her.

Sam heard the sound of a train coming. The air began to rush through the tunnel. She looked around and saw no one else. There was no one to save her.

Her head ached horribly, and she wanted to puke. "You're not a killer, Tace."

"That's the beauty of this, though," Powell said. "I just let you go, and the train is the thing that kills you. It happens all the time, people jumping onto the tracks, in front of trains."

"Mel isn't a killer either," Sam said.

Powell laughed bitterly. "This was her idea! We'd get the money from that old bat, and everything would be peachy! That's how it's supposed to work. That's how it will work."

The sound of the train was closer and from her position, Sam saw the light coming from the tunnel. She felt dizzy and sick, and couldn't think of anything else to say as the train closed in, closer and closer. The noise came, and the air pushed through, blowing her hair back.

"I'm sorry," Powell said, pushing Sam forward over the edge. "I don't do this."

"Then don't!" Sam shouted over the noise of the train, and teetered on her toes. When Powell let go, she would have no way of righting herself. She would do nothing but fall forward, into the train.

The train breached the edge of the tunnel, coming at her.

Sam closed her eyes as Powell's grip was released. She fell forward. Her body then jerked as another force pulled her up by her arm. Her eyes snapped open just in time to see the train pass inches in front of her nose as she fell backwards.

Her feet scrambled for purchase, but she continued to fall, over and over again until she landed hard against something that was not the concrete floor of the platform.

Sam lay on her back as she caught her breath and fought against the jarring pain in her head.

"Sam? Are you all right?" John's voice was not coming through hear earpiece that time. He was behind her, right behind her in fact.

"Um, no, no I'm not," Sam shook her head and covered her eyes. It didn't help. She gagged and rolled off of John, landing on all fours, and vomited on the concrete floor.

She gagged and spat, holding her position, afraid that she wouldn't be able to get up. Her arms and legs shook and her head still pounded. She felt John as he knelt down next to her and examined the back of her head.

"That looks pretty bad."

"It feels that way too," Sam gagged again, but there was nothing left to puke. "Where is Powell?"

"He's over there. He'll live."

Sam didn't look. She stared with watery eyes at the mess she made on the floor.

"The police are arresting Mrs. Powell. They'll come for Tace soon enough." Sam felt his arms come around her middle. "Come on, try to stand up. You need a doctor."

The lights in the tunnel sparked and blurred in her vision, and Sam clamped her hands over John's arms as he slowly helped her up.

When she found her feet she swayed against him. John held her closely to him and started walking, taking small steps. Sam followed, and moved with him, keeping her eyes on the floor. Something dark caught her eye, and Sam saw the body of Tace Powell lying still on the floor of the platform. She watched for a moment, and saw him take a breath.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"It was Mel wasn't it? She was going to kill Mrs. Willman."

"She had a lethal dose of morphine in that syringe. It would only have taken a few minutes." John pulled Sam up, keeping her on her feet, one arm around her back, and the other holding onto her hand. "Mrs. Willman takes morphine sometimes, but only in small amounts. It would have looked like an accidental overdose."

They started the slow ascent up the stairs.

Sam fought back her gag reflex on every other step. She held onto John like she would a buoy if she were stranded in the middle of an ocean. It felt that way a little bit. Her vision blurred in and out of focus, and it felt almost like the ground was moving underneath her feet. John was the only steady thing around her.

And he stayed there with her, even though she was bloody and probably smelled like puke. Sam glanced at his hand holding onto hers. His fingers were reddish with traces of her blood.

"John?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Thank you for finding me."


	9. Angel

"I know I haven't been here in a while, guys. I'm sorry. Not that it matters much to you. I know that you're not really _here_, but it gives me some sort of focal point."

The large gravestone stood solidly in front of her, bearing the names of her parents, their dates of birth and death. A smaller headstone stood next to it. It held her brother's name. The date of death was the same.

Sam lay down on the deep green grass underneath a large oak tree that blocked some of the sunlight from the graves. She took her eyes away from the gravestones and looked at the sky through the tree branches.

"I want you guys to know that I'm okay. I've made some new friends, a couple of them are cops actually," she smiled. "The ones who aren't cops are Harold and John. I kind of work with them sometimes. Harold is very, very smart, and gives good advice.

"John is – well he's – Mom and Dad, you guys would really like him. Dad, he served in the military, helped protect our country after Nine Eleven. And he can basically fire any weapon and drive any vehicle you put in front of him.

"Mom, he's also very honorable, a gentleman, respectful, and he thinks I'm funny." Sam's smile fell off of her face. "I really wish I could talk to you, Mom. Just for a few minutes. See, I left him and the work I helped him with, because – well, because I almost became just like those monsters who took you guys away from me. He stopped me, though – John did."

Sam moved her hand over the grass as she thought. "I was scared. I guess I really did run. I ran away because I couldn't think of anything else to do. But there was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. I know that now.

"Mom, I was really helping people. I was literally saving lives. It's something I never thought I could do."

Sam stopped as a shadow fell over her and she looked up. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I just walked up, I swear," John said. "Is this seat taken?" He pointed to the patch of grass next to Sam.

"Knock yourself out."

John sat down so he faced her as she lay there. "How's your head?"

"The doctor said the dizziness would go away eventually. But it hasn't yet, that's why I'm lying down."

"Ceilia Willman is charging the Powells with attempted murder and conspiracy as the top two."

"She won't give it up either."

"No, she won't. And the copy of the will Finch found in the database at the law firm has been deleted."

Sam nodded and kept her eyes on the tree branches above her.

"I also wanted to check on you. Finch thought you'd be here."

"Why?"

"The times a person misses their families the most are Christmas, Easter, and… on their birthday, so I'm told."

Sam sighed. "Easter? Finch needs to stop being so freaking smart. It's not my birthday. I died, remember?" she pointed at the other headstone on the opposite side of her parents'. The name Samantha Tudin was carved into the stone. Samantha Watts was the woman lying on the grass in front of it.

"Legally, yes," John nodded. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, you can stay," she said. "Talking to you is better than talking to myself anyway. That's what I realized when I was gone, you know. I missed talking to you specifically, John. Conversations with you are less stressful than with anyone else, I've discovered."

"Stressful?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. You listen to me, and then you respond without putting your two cents worth in. Unless I ask for it, that is, or if you think I'm acting stupidly." Sam chuckled then winced at the dull pain in her head. "My point is that I never have to worry about what you think of me. No matter what I tell you."

John nodded in understanding as he looked over Sam at the gravestones. "Happy Birthday," he said quietly.

Sam blinked the tears out of her eyes. They rolled down the sides of her face and into her hair that was spread out underneath her on the grass. "I'm sorry about what I said before, John – 'barefoot and pregnant'. I know that's not you at all."

"It's okay."

"Part of the reason I like you is how you are with women. You're very respectful. You believe that anyone, man or woman, is equally able to take a shot at you."

John laughed. "I did miss you, Sam."

"I know," Sam smiled up at him as she reached into her pocket.

She pulled out a narrow strip of paper. "I knew there were five of these, John." Sam said, looking at the small photographs of herself and John. "When I found you in that cellar, I took out your knife to cut you free. This came out of your pocket with your knife," she handed him the strip of photos. "I didn't look at it. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it until I had to do laundry."

John took the photo strip, never taking his eyes away from Sam. "All of those were in my purse at one point. You took that one didn't you?"

Sam kept her eyes on him and was met with that steely gaze of his that didn't reveal anything below the surface. "That's when I knew for sure that you missed me. But thank you for saying it."

"You're welcome," John replied, slipping the strip into his jacket pocket. "Tell me something, Sam."

"Anything."

"Are you going to run again?"

The weight of that question never lightened, no matter how often he asked it. This time, however, Sam was a little more prepared. "Do you want me to stay?"

Again, John clammed up. His lips thinned and his eyes hardened.

"That's okay. You don't have to answer," Sam said, looking up above her, through the tree branches. "Let me ask you something first. How many times have you been shot doing this job?"

John tilted his head, surprised at the seemingly random question. "I don't really keep track of that."

"It's been a lot though, right?"

Sam reached her hand out to him. John took it and helped her up into a sitting position. They sat next to each other, closely facing one another.

"You've been shot at countless times, and hit several times. Would you say that?"

"Yes."

"Yet here you are," Sam waved her hand at him. "You could have died so many times, John. You've come so close too many times. I've been there for a few of them. And if not that, you could have just quit, given up and left at any time. You could have given up before you started, because of the person you lost."

John looked away from her, but Sam took his hand and scooted a little closer to him. "I could have too. I know you've thought about it because I have too." His sharp blue eyes snapped back to hers as she spoke.

"Everything that could have stopped you, John; all of this stuff that keeps pushing you away – and yet here you are. You come back every single time. Because of all of that, don't you think that maybe, just maybe, you were meant to be here, doing what you're doing?"

"I chose to stay here, Sam," John said.

"I know. Why? Because this is where you think you should be, right? That's what I believe too. You are here because there is no one else. John, you were _meant_ to be this sort of guardian angel for these people who have no one else."

John smiled wryly and let out a soft chuckle. "Angel?" he said sarcastically.

"A fallen angel then," Sam said thoughtfully. "A dark angel. Whatever it is, that's what you are. And that's how people see you whether you like it or not. That's what it is for me too."

"What do you mean?"

Sam's features relaxed as she looked John in the eyes. If she was honest with herself, she would say that she hadn't come to a decision until that very moment. But, right then, she knew solidly as if it had been standing in front of her the entire time. "We've lost a lot, John, you and I. But… I think I know why now."

"Sam," John said seriously. "You haven't gone and found religion on me, have you?"

He was joking, partially. Sam smiled. "No, John. This is just me. And I'm supposed to be here too." She moved even closer to him and lowered her voice. "I won't let you down again. What I said before still stands. You're stuck with me, John Reese. You're not a bad bet. You're a good man who does the right thing, John. Maybe you'll never believe that, but I do."

Sam moved to get up. John took her by the arm and helped her to her feet. "All of that makes you worth the wait." She stood on tip toe and kissed him on the cheek.

"Wait for what?"

Sam smiled knowingly and didn't answer. Instead, she took his arm and leaned a little on him as they walked slowly out of the cemetery.

* * *

Note: This last scene was inspired by a song that I recently put on my playlist by Alex Clare. "I Won't Let You Down". To me, it basically defines John and Sam's relationship. There are a couple of other songs like that, but this one really stands out. It does to me, anyway.

Thank you so much for reading and posting your comments and reviews. :)


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